


To Trust Wholly

by Wolf_dog



Series: Trust [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bottom John, Dark Sherlock, M/M, Top Sherlock, Werewolf John, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 01:23:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolf_dog/pseuds/Wolf_dog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was born as a wolf but has the abilities to turn into a human. His parents abandon him, and Sherlock finds him and takes him in and teaches him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Trust Wholly

John was a werewolf, but he had been born as a wolf with wolf parents and a wolf pack. Of course, his name hadn’t been John, then. It had been Sand, named after the colour of his fur. He hadn’t gotten the name John for another three years. He could understand both human and wolf languages, and the first time he had transformed into human, he was three years old. His mother had nearly killed him when she’d come back from her hunting trip and found the toddler in amongst her litter, playing, until John had started whining happily at her and telling her what they’d been up to. He would never remember the look of horror in his mother’s eyes as she stared at him as a human boy. He hadn’t understood – not back then – why his mother had looked at him like that. He’d transformed back within the hour and was playing happily when his father came, and he gave a happy yip, trotting up to the dark-brown wolf and tumbling around his paws. His mother slipped into the den and curled around the rest of her litter, not looking as his father picked him up gently by the scruff of his neck and started walking away. He whined, asking where they were going, but his father never replied. John grew anxious the further they went from the Den and he told his father as such, but all he got in reply was a low rumble. After that, John stayed quiet, slipping into a near-doze. He woke when his father set him down, and he shook out his thick fur and sat up, looking around excitedly. He doubted any of his littermates had ever gone this far away from the Den before! He yapped happily, bouncing around his father’s paws, and his father nosed his forehead gently, before he licked John’s back and pushed him in the direction on the tree line, and John happily bounded in that direction, and when he looked back, his father was gone. Confused and scared, he whined anxiously, tail pressing between his legs and he crouched into the ground, wishing his father would return and find him. John gave a high-pitched whine, panting in terror. Where had his father gone? Why had he left him here?

“Come!” A soft, persistent and demanding voice called.

John’s fuzzy ears pricked, and his head swivelled in that direction. It was an unfamiliar voice, and John crawled his way over to it, poking his head out from under a bush, curious. There was a young human boy, with piercing multi-coloured eyes, pale skin and a mop of curly black hair. He was just sitting on the ground with his legs crossed. John wagged his tail and gave a whine of greeting, but stayed in the safety of the bushes just in case. The boy turned his head to face him and gave a small smile, beckoning with his hand. “Come,” he repeated, softer this time, eyes trained totally on John.

John, unable to resist the call, scurried out of his hiding place and trotted over, ears pricked and panting softly, and gave another soft whine of greeting.

The boy smiled softly and reached out a hand, and John nuzzled into it gently. He gave a whine of distress as he was picked up in a both hands, but the boy shushed him softly yet firmly, and stroked a hand down his back with surprising gentleness. John was at least half the size of the boy, but he curled up in the boy’s lap anyway, nuzzling into his chest and inhaling his scent. He smelt nice, comforting, and John closed his eyes, rumbling in content as a hand continued to stroke down his back, his tail wagging happily.

John’s ears pricked, body tensing slightly as a voice called out sternly, “Sherlock! Time for lunch!”

John gave a soft whine, tail and ears drooping. Would the boy leave him all alone now? He didn’t want that. He looked up at Sherlock with anxious and pleading eyes. Sherlock stared down at him for a few moments with a small smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you. Promise,” Sherlock reassured him softly, scratching lightly behind John’s ears.

Sherlock gently pushed John from his lap and then stood, stretching his little arms above his head. “Come… John,” Sherlock ordered with a small smile, obviously pleased with the name he had chosen for the werewolf.

John’s ears pricked and he gave a happy bark, following Sherlock back to the huge house. There was a woman – Sherlock’s mother? – standing by the door, looking very tired. She frowned as she spotted John, and picked him up as Sherlock passed by her and into the house.  John whined anxiously, ears flattening and tail tucking between his legs. Sherlock didn’t seem to have noticed, and John whined again, this time louder and more high-pitched as Sherlock’s mother frowned at him and John could hear the heavy footsteps of Sherlock rushing towards him as John squirmed in the long-fingered grip, whining continuously.

“Mother!” Sherlock protested, and John caught a glimpse of him and saw that the young boy was frowning, “Give John back to me! He’s _mine!_ ”

“Yours?” Sherlock’s mother asked and trilled a cold laugh. “He’s a mutt, Sherlock, and I will not allow mutts inside this house!”

John stilled in fear, twisting to face Sherlock with a pleading expression. Sherlock would take care of him, wouldn’t he? “He’s not a _mutt!_ ” Sherlock protested vehemently, scowling, his expression suddenly dark, “he’s a _wolf!_ A _purebred_!”

John kept his gaze on Sherlock, whining softly and his tail twitching slightly, anxious. Sherlock glanced at him, and his expression softened slightly, before hardening as he looked back to his mother.

John could sense Sherlock’s mother wavering, and finally she sighed and handed John off to Sherlock, who gripped him tight to his chest and turned without so much as another glance towards his mother. John nuzzled close, his nose pressing against Sherlock’s neck, just below his ear, and he whined softly, tail wagging and he licked Sherlock in thanks. Sherlock stroked a hand firmly down his back, and John relaxed against him. Walking into a room, Sherlock set John down and told him firmly, “Stay by my side, John. I won’t let anyone else try and take you away. Do you understand?”

John nodded, ears pricked and he wagged his tail once.

*.*.*.

The next morning, Sherlock began training John on how to be good. John tried his best, he really did, and John was completely devoted to Sherlock and did everything he could to please him. John would never forget, however, the first time Sherlock punished him.

It was only a month after Sherlock had started training him and John had broken Sherlock’s first rule – never go outside of the room without Sherlock. To be fair, Sherlock had left him alone in the room for only an hour, but John wanted to be sure that Sherlock was alright, and had gone to try and investigate. When he’d found Sherlock, safe and well, Sherlock had been absolutely furious. John understood that the Rules were there to protect him, but he had wanted to be sure that Sherlock was alright.

After taking him back to their room, Sherlock had firmly shut the door and ordered John to sit. Ears drooping, John had done so, giving a soft whine.

“John,” Sherlock said in a soft voice, walking over to John, “You disobeyed me. You know I have to punish you for that.”

John dipped his head, eyes on the floor. John listened to Sherlock approach, and he leant into the feel of Sherlock’s small, four-year old hand on his furry cheek, and John gave a yelp and was sent sprawling onto the floor as the hand slapped him with unexpected force. Whimpering softly, John looked up at Sherlock, and saw the boy coming over to him and crouching in front of him, gently stroking down his back in a now-familiar comforting manner.

“Now. You won’t do that again, will you, John?” Sherlock asked, and John forced himself to meet Sherlock’s gaze and shook his head and was rewarded with a smile.  “Good boy,” Sherlock praised and John’s heart lifted and his tail thumped against the floor. “The rules are there to protect you. By breaking them, you place yourself in danger and I don’t want that to happen.”

*.*.*.

It was four years later the first time John transformed in Sherlock’s house. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to show Sherlock that, it was merely that John had forgotten about it. He hadn’t even meant to transform. He’d curled up on the end of Sherlock’s bed (a privilege that he’d _earned_ ) in his wolf form while Sherlock went to school, and gone to sleep like he usually did.

When Sherlock burst in a few hours later, John woke with a start and lifted his head sleepily and he stretched out and realised with a start that he must have transformed while he slept.

“Who are you?” Sherlock demanded, striding over to him and looking around, a tinge of worry in his gaze, “Where’s John?”

“Sh-er-lo-ck,” John sounded out as he sat up, and then a pleased smile came over his face. “Sher-lock,” John said again, just because he could, and looked happily over at Sherlock, who was frowning.

“Who are you?” Sherlock repeated, more firmly, looking more confused now.

Slipping from the bed and standing, John walked in a loose circle, getting used to just two legs instead of four, and then pointed to him, pointing to his heart, and said, “Jo-hn. John.”

“John?” Sherlock repeated, a note of disbelief in his voice. “ _You’re_ John. My John?”

John nodded his head happily, and ducked his head like he always did when he wanted Sherlock to pat him. Sherlock’s hand came out and stroked through John’s soft blonde hair. “John,” Sherlock repeated in a murmur before stepping back and demanding, “Show me.”

John hesitated a moment before admitting, “Don’t know how.”

“You don’t know how to transform back?” Sherlock asked and John nodded.

“Sit,” Sherlock commanded, waving a hand towards the bed, and John obediently sat and watched as Sherlock paced, hands pressed together under his nose.

After some time, Sherlock strode over to John and he was smiling, a gleam in his eyes. “This is perfect!” Sherlock exclaimed, and flopped onto the bed beside him. John rolled over and cuddled up to his side, and Sherlock absently placed a hand in John’s hair and stroked gently. “Do you want to stay with me?” Sherlock asked and John instantly nodded, “Forever?” Sherlock clarified.

“For-ev-er,” John repeated happily.

“Good,” Sherlock said, sounding immensely satisfied.

*.*.*.

From then on, Sherlock taught John in both forms, even figuring out how to get John to transform between them. In human, Sherlock taught him how to speak and write in English, as well as how to fight and do mathematics. In wolf, Sherlock continued with his training on how to be good, and it was implied that John needed to follow these no matter which form he was in, and taught John how to fight.

Every now and then, Sherlock would grant him rewards for being good and not breaking any of his rules. Sometimes it would be a simple pat on the head, or a ‘good boy, John’ and he was even allowed to sleep at Sherlock’s side in the bed. John was completely devoted to Sherlock. He’d do anything Sherlock asked.

Once, when John was in human form, a few years later when Sherlock was twelve, Sherlock ordered John to sit on the edge of the bed. John, well used to Sherlock’s orders that didn’t seem to have any purpose, sat without hesitation or question on the edge of the bed, eyes focussed completely on Sherlock as the twelve year old paced, hands folded in the now-familiar position.

It was a few minutes of silence before Sherlock ordered him, “Close your eyes, John.”

Immediately complying, John knew better than to question Sherlock. He felt breath waft over him, and resisted the urge to look or ask a question, and after a few moments, John felt a gentle, soft pressure against his lips. A surprised sound escaped him, and he leant forward into the sensation slightly. It felt nice.

“Open your eyes,” Sherlock whispered, his breath wafting over John and he inhaled, loving the scent as he opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock with a small smile.

“M-my heart,” John said softly in confusion, reaching a hand to rub against his chest, “It feels funny. Warm. Is this… normal?”

Sherlock’s eyes darted over his face, and then he smiled. “I feel it too,” Sherlock murmured softly, “It’s love, John.”

John tilted his head to the side. “Love? Like… like parents love each other?” John asked, blinking.

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, John. Would you do anything for me?”

“Anything at all. I’d die for you, Sherlock,” John told Sherlock honestly.

“And you care for me?”

“More than anything – much more than myself. I swear it.”

Sherlock smiled in satisfaction, but it turned into a scowl as there was a knock at the door and Sherlock’s brother appeared.

“What do you want, Mycroft?” Sherlock demanded, drawing himself up to his full height and glaring at his older sibling.

Mycroft ignored him, and his gaze strayed to John instead. John blinked in surprise, and his gaze turned to Sherlock.

“You know,” Mycroft said coolly, “Mummy would hate to see you with a mere commoner.”

Sherlock visibly bristled and laid a hand on John’s hair, stroking his hair and John leant into the touch, eyes half-closing.

“John is _not_ a commoner, Mycroft. He is the furthest thing from common, and you will never know why, Mycroft,” Sherlock said coldly, eyes hard as they gazed at his brother.

“It would be a … _shame_ if Mummy found out about your _pet_ , brother,” Mycroft said, glancing down at his feet with disdain before back up at Sherlock.

Sherlock’s grip tightened before he released John’s hair completely. “Do what you will, Mycroft. You cannot keep us apart. Neither John nor I will let that happen. Right, John?” Sherlock said, looking down at John.

“Never. I’d rather die,” John vowed, gaze locked on Sherlock.

There was a soft huff, before the door closed and Mycroft was gone. “Good boy, John,” Sherlock praised him, and John smiled happily.

*.*.*.

It was only a mere week later before _It_ happened. John was in wolf form, napping on Sherlock’s bed, when he heard Sherlock’s voice raised in outrage with a slight hint of fear and panic. Instantly awake and on alert, John’s ears pricked.

“JOHN!” Sherlock yelled loudly, and John could hear muffled thumps and his blood boiled. Someone dared try to harm his Sherlock? “COME, JOHN!”

Without another thought, John leapt off of the bed and bent his head, ramming the bedroom door with the flat of his forehead, breaking it cleanly off of its hinges, and, breathing in a deep breath, raced along the halls and down a flight of stairs before he found Sherlock in the living room, Sherlock’s mother, father and Mycroft watching as men restrained Sherlock forcibly.

Growling low in his throat, hackles raised, he stalked into the room, eyes darting around. Sherlock visibly relaxed when he saw John. “Release me or I’ll have John kill you!” Sherlock threatened.

Sherlock’s father snorted and Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Take him out and to the car,” Sherlock’s father ordered.

“John!” Sherlock commanded, and John didn’t need any further instructions.

Leaping from where he stood, teeth bared in a fearsome snarl and claws extended, he leapt onto one of the people restraining Sherlock, taking care to avoid the tween who had taken care of him and loved him and taught him so much, and knocked him to the floor, ripping into him with his claws, not caring about the blood that gushed and oozed from the man as he weakly tried to push John off. He would not be stopped! Sherlock had given him an order, and John would fulfil it. John leant down and tore a chunk out of the man’s throat, spitting it to the side away from Sherlock and snarling in his face before the man died and John looked up, blood staining his fur and claws and dripping from his jaw. Everyone was staring at him in horror except for Sherlock, who was looking at him with approval. John warmed at the look, pleased.

The other thug was still holding Sherlock, a look of horror on his now-pale face, and John’s eyes went to the thugs beefy hands on Sherlock’s thin arm, pressing in hard and John growled threateningly, stalking towards him, ears flattened.

“John!” Sherlock shouted, eyes wide as John’s ear flicked at the sound of movement and he spun around, tackling another thug to the ground, snarling and he hardly flinched as a knife struck into his shoulder.

The thug’s eyes widened in shock as he saw how John was obviously bleeding, but not even twitching, instead waiting for Sherlock’s command.

“Kill,” Sherlock’s voice was cold. “All of the hired goons.”

Tail flicking in acknowledgement, John went for the throat, and wrapped his jaws around the man’s throat, squeezing the life out of him, anger boiling through him. No one would threaten his Sherlock and get away with it. No one.

Then, he released the man and twisted his head and closed his jaws around the knife in his shoulder and tugged it out before spitting it onto the ground. The other thug released Sherlock and started backing away, but it was too late for him. John stalked across the room, snarling and baring his bloody teeth, and then leapt, tackling the man to the ground an ignoring his futile struggles and punches and crushed his throat like he’d done to the others.

Once the man was dead, John stepped off of him and sat down by Sherlock’s side, nuzzling him tenderly and checking to make sure that he wasn’t harmed, and making sure that none of the blood on his fur got on Sherlock. His shoulder was oozing blood, but John paid it no mind as Sherlock gently pet John’s head, glaring at his family. “I warned you to not try and force us apart,” Sherlock said, his anger evident in voice. “John is _mine_.”

“Sherlock,” Sherlock’s mother said in a deceptively sweet voice, “John is a wolf. How can you be sure that he won’t turn on _you_?”

John bristled at the accusation. As if he would turn on Sherlock! He _loved_ Sherlock. With all his heart.

“Forever, right, John?” Sherlock addressed him, and John nodded eagerly, pressing his nose gently to Sherlock’s cheek.

John, now eleven, was a fully grown wolf, and his shoulders came up to Sherlock’s cheekbones, and his head was above Sherlock’s height.

“He can’t understand you, dear. He reacts to tones,” Sherlock’s mother said softly.

John gave a short growl, but quietened instantly as Sherlock pet his head once more before sighing and saying, “John. Go get the ring finger from the thug that you attacked first from his right hand and place it in front of Mycroft’s left foot.”

John dipped his head and trotted over to the thug, tearing off his ring finger from the right beefy hand and went over to Mycroft, placing it in front of the older sibling’s left foot before retreating to Sherlock’s side and his tail wagged happily as Sherlock looked at him warmly. Love. That’s what Sherlock had said this feeling was.

Sherlock’s family was silent, and John saw their expressions of mixed horror and fear. Good. They should fear. John could smell it in the air, and he gave a vicious toothy, bloody grin. Sherlock’s mother flinched.

“We’re leaving. Come, John,” Sherlock commanded and turned, stalking off, but Sherlock’s father blocked the doorway, scowling.

“Father! NO!” Mycroft called out, sounding slightly panicked as Sherlock glared at him.

“I will give you one chance to move out of my way,” Sherlock said coldly, and John’s fur bristled, claws scratching gently on the wooden floor in warning.

“You wouldn’t kill your own father,” Sherlock’s father scoffed, and Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “You will stay here, you will apologise and then you will get rid of your pet.”

Sherlock sighed, and clicked his fingers together gently. John leapt and knocked the man to the ground, holding him there and snarling in his face. “Apologise to John and I will spare your life,” Sherlock warned, and John growled loudly, ears flat.

“I will never-“ Sherlock’s father started before Sherlock sighed and said, “John.”

John wasted no time in capturing the man’s head in his jaws and twisting savagely, hearing the crunch of bones and feeling the life drain from the man under him. Sherlock didn’t spare his father another glance, instead stepping over him and carrying on towards their room with John following.

*.*.*.

Sherlock still held all of the money he had inherited, plus he got a third of what his father had left, so they were quite well off. At fifteen, they had moved into the middle of London, and were quite comfortable.

The first time they did anything sexual (besides kissing) was on John’s fifteenth birthday. It was a treat, Sherlock told him with a grin as he ordered John onto his knees. John felt a stir of excitement and anticipation roll through him. A treat! That was like a really good birthday present.

They were in their room, and Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, long locks falling in front of his face for a moment as he tugged off his trousers and pants. At Sherlock’s gesture, John crawled forward, eyes locked onto Sherlock’s hardening cock with curiosity. “Since it’s your birthday, you can explore,” Sherlock told him and smiled as John looked up at him with eagerness.

John shifted even closer, his hands resting on Sherlock’s thighs as he leant in close and nuzzled at the warm skin with his nose. Soft, but it was getting harder. Curious. Sherlock’s hands slipped into his hair, and John looked up to see Sherlock with a pleased expression on his face, so John continued. He licked at the head, tasting the small clear drop that had formed at the tip. It was salty, but it tasted nice.

Sherlock made a noise of pleasure, and John took that as encouragement as he licked up and down the shaft, tasting and measuring the feel of it. John took his time, savouring both the feel and taste as well as the fact that Sherlock was letting him take his time and do what he wished. After some time of exploring, Sherlock’s cock was hard and leaking, and John looked up for guidance, unsure what to do now. He’d explored, but he wanted to give Sherlock pleasure.

Sherlock’s face was flushed, but his hands were gentle as he stroked through John’s hair. “Take me in your mouth,” Sherlock ordered softly as he caught John’s look.

Relieved to have a firm order, John opened his mouth and took in the head first, licking and suckling until Sherlock gently tugged on his hair, and John slid his mouth all the way down. Sherlock moaned loudly, and John felt pleased that he could give Sherlock such pleasure. The weight and the feel of it was amazing, and John found that he rather loved it. John slid his head back, flicking the slit with his tongue and tasting the saltiness once more, before sliding back down, making a questioning sound and looking up at Sherlock for approval. Sherlock’s eyes were shut and he was breathing heavily, and he gave a shiver, “Don’t stop,” Sherlock rasped, and John set back to work even more eagerly than before.

He loved being able to give pleasure to Sherlock in any form, and John rather loved doing this. It was an almost addicting feel. After a minute or two, Sherlock’s hips began twitching up into his mouth, and the feel of it was divine, and John gave an eager whine, opening his jaw wide in invitation. Sherlock started down at him, breathing heavily, and managed to get out, “It’s meant to be your present.”

John pulled off, and smiled softly up at Sherlock. “Your pleasure brings me pleasure. Please!” John said eagerly, shifting himself slightly closer and opening his mouth wide once again, eyes locked onto Sherlock, waiting.

Sherlock stared down at him for a moment, eyes dark with lust, and then thrust his hips hard into John’s mouth, John whining eagerly in encouragement as Sherlock stood, pounding into John’s warm inviting mouth eagerly. Experimentally swallowing as Sherlock thrust in, John watched as Sherlock moaned loudly, his grip on John’s hair tightening, but his eyes never closed, locked on John’s eager eyes staring up at him.

Not long passed before Sherlock gave a cry, and came hard into John’s mouth, shooting his seed down John’s throat, who swallowed the salty treat eagerly, licking every last drop up before pulling off. Sherlock had closed his eyes, and was panting heavily, his grip tight in John’s hair.

John stood and gently pushed Sherlock back onto the bed, lying him down and tugging Sherlock’s clothes off completely before tucking him under the covers and then snuggling close to Sherlock on top of them.

“Under, John. Join me,” Sherlock murmured, and John brightened, instantly snuggling under the covers and into Sherlock’s side, resting his head on Sherlock’s chest, half-covering Sherlock, and sighing happily.

Sherlock’s arms wrapped around his waist, and frowned slightly. “Clothes, off,” Sherlock ordered, tugging at John’s shirt.

John quickly obeyed the command, sitting up and tugging off his shirt and throwing it off the bed before tugging off his trousers and his pants, chucking them off as well before settling back down in his position and Sherlock’s arm wrapped back around his waist and sighed contentedly. The last thing John heard before falling asleep was a quiet, “Good boy, John. Good boy.”

*.*.*.

The first time John got the chance to protect Sherlock away from the Sherlock’s family, was at night, when they were on their way back home from a park (one of Sherlock and John’s favourite things to do at night, after everyone else had retreated to their beds, and John could transform and run around as he pleased). John had been in human, and holding Sherlock’s hand tightly, swinging slightly, and they were both grinning. Tonight, Sherlock had gone on John’s back as the werewolf raced about the park. John had noticed the presence of the men first, sneaking behind them, and he stiffened, gently shoving Sherlock up against the wall and pressing his back against Sherlock’s chest, a growl rumbling through him as he eyed the three men approaching. All of them looked to be in their 30’s, with sneers on their faces, and John’s eyes rapidly assessed them all, waiting for Sherlock’s command.

John’s arms were spread to either side, fingertips lightly brushing the wall to protect Sherlock and keep him away from the danger, a growl rumbling from his chest, eyes flickering between all three threats. “I think it would be best if you all left me and my love alone,” Sherlock warned quietly.

The three glanced between themselves in amusement, “Your _love_?” One sneered, “How old are you? Not even eighteen, I’d say. Your _love_ is sure to leave you eventually.”

John snarled at the accusation, only quietening when Sherlock gently stroked a hand down his back, hand resting above John’s arse.

“He will never leave,” Sherlock said confidently, and another of the men sniggered as they gradually drew close.

“Keep back!” John snapped, his body tensing in preparation of a fight.

They put their hands up placatingly, and John caught the glimpse of a knife under the coat of one, but he still waited, murmuring in agitation, “Sherlock. _Please_.”

John tilted into Sherlock’s hand coming back up his back and gripping his hair, turning his head to the side pressing his lips wetly to John’s, making the werewolf shiver, and then pet his arse and whispered lovingly, “Go on. _Kill_.”

John let a grin creep across his face, and he waited until Sherlock let go of his hair and had ordered sharply, “Don’t let them hurt you!” before John lunged at them, using the skills Sherlock had taught him, and quickly snapped the neck of two in quick succession before turning on the third – the one with the knife.

Except, he was closer to Sherlock than John had thought he was, and darted forward as the other lunged towards Sherlock. John’s heart seemed to stop as Sherlock looked up and reacted, dislodging the knifed hand easily and punching the man in the face before stepping back as the man went sprawling and John tackled the man to the floor, slamming the man’s head back onto the floor and snarling in his face before coldly snapping his neck.

John’s body was shaking as he approached Sherlock, eyes darting rapidly over Sherlock, concerned. “I’m sorry,” John whimpered, his voice shaking and head lowered as he stopped just in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock studied him for what felt like forever, before smiling slightly and bringing John in for a gentle kiss. “Don’t be. You can’t watch all of them at once.”

Smiling in relief, John ducked his head like he always did when he wanted a pat, and Sherlock obligingly stroked a gentle hand through his hair, causing John to sigh happily and leant into his touch.

Sherlock took his hand again and guided him home, where they curled up naked under all the blankets and drew comfort from the other’s presence. 


End file.
